


Above Snakes

by Harishe



Series: Holiday Discord Events [3]
Category: Hawkeye (Comics), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, Winter Soldier (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Western, Bar Room Brawl, Canon-Typical Violence, Clint has a bad day, Cowboys & Cowgirls, Hanging, Horses being horses, Kidnapping, M/M, More like a Bad Few Months, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-26
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-17 03:29:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29710962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Harishe/pseuds/Harishe
Summary: Clint and Bucky have been tasked with keeping the peace in the Midwest, as per their orders. Sure they argue, but they're a damn good team as they travel on horseback, but when Clint has one really stupid plan to catch a gang of outlaws, suddenly nothing can go right.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Series: Holiday Discord Events [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2061204
Comments: 10
Kudos: 26
Collections: Poly Armory Tropes and AUs, Trope is in the Air





	Above Snakes

**Author's Note:**

> Special shout out to [Alistra](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ALeaseInWonderland/pseuds/Alistra) for _shredding_ this hot mess of a fic and making it into something y'all can enjoy.
> 
> My AU randomly assigned was 'Cowboys' and I'll name the assigned trope in the end notes.

“Come on, Bucky,” Clint whines. “You owe me after the thing in New Mexico.” The steady rhythm of the horse's hooves clopping is the only sound between the two men for a few long moments as he waits for his partner’s response.

Bucky gives him a withering look that would’ve made lesser men piss themselves, but when he sighs, Clint knows he has him. New Mexico had been a fucking nightmare for them. A three-day mission had turned into a two week game of cat and mouse with the local militia. Bucky’s prosthetic arm had been torn off and he'd slung it over his back halfway through the mission and Clint had been lamenting the loss of his third favorite bow. That’s when Bucky had suggested hiding in an abandoned mine nobody would be crazy enough to enter. Well, nobody but these two idiots at least. While they had lost the militia men, they'd also gotten stuck in the mine for three days without food when the exit shaft collapsed.

Clint shakes off the memory with a shudder and watches as Bucky roughly runs his fingers through his hair, the short locks sticking up wildly and catching the sunlight. “Okay, what the hell does this plan of yours entail?” he asks, sullenly dropping his hand back to the horn of his saddle. 

A thrill sings through Clint’s chest - bright and happy - one he’s been trying not to analyze for the past few months. While he knows that Bucky considers him as just a partner, it is getting increasingly difficult for Clint to push down his growing attraction. They’ve been traveling together for the better part of a year now, tasked with keeping the peace as they go. Currently, they are tracking a no-good gang that caught their attention with a bank robbery in Idaho. Often, Clint and Bucky are confused with Marshals, and they don’t really bother correcting anyone that thinks so - it actually makes their job easier. Working for the Pinkertons isn’t usually favored by the locals. 

“Well,"Clint says, adjusting his gambler to better block the sunlight - and his view of Bucky. He isn't sure he can get the words out coherently if he has to stare into his intense gaze. "our best bet is to get one of us in good with ‘em,” And since you’re the scary-looking one between us, you’ll have to be the bad guy. Ain’t nothin’ better than being able to overtake a lawman.” Clint says with a sly wink as he peeks at him from beneath the brim of his hat.

They started their journey completely at odds with each other, constantly bickering over nothing, and never agreeing on a course of action until the circumstances forced them to work together. Bucky was always so serious, which just made Clint try that much harder to make light of every situation they put themselves into. It has taken them frustratingly long time to fall into a workable rhythm. 

Their boss, Fury, had given them their assignment - straight from Allen Pinkerton himself - to handle crimes that crossed state lines in the midwest. _“I don’t want to hear y’alls gripin’!” Fury had spat. “If the two of you want to stay above snakes, you better get the hell outta my office!”_

Bucky gives him a flat look in return. “You’d have to be the lawman anyhow. Ain’t nobody gonna believe that punchable face is anything other than a chisler or a badge.”

“Criminy!” Clint exclaims, turning himself bodily in his saddle to face Bucky as he leans his weight back. His horse starts listing lazily away from his partner. “You got a smart mouth on ya, sir.”

Bucky snorts and shakes his head, looking down at his hand on his saddle as he flexes his fingers. Clint can still see a hint of a smile threatening the corner of Bucky's mouth. 

“What’s the damn plan though?” Bucky's tone is lighter than the first time he's asked, but still irritated.

“Alright, so we’ve been chasin’ these fellas all across the damn country at this point, right?” Clint asks, shifting himself back into his own saddle proper and directing his own painted mare back towards Bucky’s black and white stallion. “We know a few places where they like to hole up, too.” 

Bucky opens his mouth to say something, but Clint just holds up a hand between them, stopping his thought in its tracks. “I know, I know. We can’t risk losin’ ‘em,” Clint’s poor attempt at mimicking Bucky’s deep voice has Bucky snapping his mouth shut and twisting his lips into an irritated line, but Clint presses on. “We just gotta pick the most likely spot - and I think we know where - and get you set up as an outlaw. That way, when they show up, I can ride in an’ you abscond with my person to get in good with ‘em.”

“An’ what if they recognize me?” Bucky asks, holding up his silvery arm. Briefly, the sun glints off it and into Clint's eyes, making him squint and look away. He isn't sure whether Bucky did it intentionally or not, but doesn’t get a chance to comment on it either way before Bucky continues. “I’m a bit hard to miss.”

“Yup, thought about that too. All we gotta do is rely on that history of yours.”

Bucky spits angrily off to the side. It's a touchy subject for him. “Everyone knows it’s a helluva lot easier to believe a killer keeps bein’ a killer than it is a killer bein’ a Pinkerton.” It’s a harsh truth, and while Clint knows he’s anything but subtle, even he realizes how cruel the words are as soon as they leave his mouth.

They ride in silence for a stretch. Clint rubs at his jaw guiltily as he waits for either a heated response, or an angry acceptance from his partner, and Bucky looks as though he’s regretting every life choice that’s led him to this point. Clint knows he doesn’t like the plan, and him being a jerk wasn’t helping the decision. The sun is slowly making its way down to the horizon as the horses continue at their ambling pace, hooves kicking up dust in their wake.

Finally, Bucky’s shoulders drop in resignation. “Alright, but if we do this and it fails - which it will be prone to doin’ - you ain’t in charge of makin’ plans no more.”

~~~~~~~~

They spend the next day discussing and fine-tuning the plan until Bucky no longer hates it. He doesn’t exactly like it, but he’s not as certain that it’ll immediately fail either. They have one last awkward meal together and part ways in the morning; Clint continuing on east after the posse they’ve been after, and Bucky, on his way south to hopefully build a solid reputation as a mercenary once again.

Clint tracks the posse for close to a month after that, getting close to being able to apprehend them once and failing miserably without a second set of eyes to watch his back. Now following them south, he’s nursing a broken nose, two black eyes, and one hell of a sore hip.

He’s been grumbling to his horse ever since the incident, and even the mare seems to be irritated. Only a day away from arriving in town and the occasional step is still sending hot lances of pain shooting from his hip to his back.

When he finally reaches the first few buildings, all the side-eyed glances he’s getting from everyone he passes on his way to the only hotel in town tell him he looks a hot mess. He ignores them all though, he really just wants a hot meal and maybe even a bath before falling into bed.

He manages to stable his horse, despite her constantly trying to search his pockets for a stray treat while he removes all the tack, and is just about to step out of the main thoroughfare and into the hotel when a young boy, no older than ten, darts out in front of him. He twists away with a grunt of pain as his bruised hip bumps into the front column. Biting back a curse, Clint glares down at the boy blocking his path.

“Mister, you’re a lawman, right?” he asks with a small, but strong voice and carefully enunciates each word. His eyes appear disproportionately large and pleading, running counterpoint with his confident stance.

Clint scoffs, rubbing at his side. “What, did someone pilfer your sucking candy?” 

The kid narrows his eyes at him and frowns. “Not like you could do anything about it when you’re using a bow instead of a shootin’ iron.”

Shifting his bow and bag over his shoulder, Clint glares at the boy. “You’d be pretty amazed by what I could do with this thing, boy,” he says cooly. “What’s your name son?”

“My name is Oliver McQueen, but my folks call me Ollie, sir.” Ollie says proudly, pulling his shoulders back. He meets Clint’s eyes again without blinking.

“I’ll remember that name,” Clint pauses at the wide grin Ollie gives him. “What do you need with a lawman anyhow?” He assumes it’s either something not actually worth his time, like a drunk uncle, or something he really, _really_ needed to look into, like - Clint doesn’t even know what.

Shifting his weight from one foot to the other, the boy looks less confident than he had moments before when his smile falters. “There’s… a man that come to town a few weeks ago,” Ollie’s voice has gone soft and his eyes are downcast. His small frame seems to fold in on itself the more he speaks about it. “He’s real scary looking. I said as much to Paw, but he said to mind my manners. It was just one man. But what kind of a man has an arm like that?” He’s rambling, but Clint doesn’t have the heart to cut him off, knowing it’s out of genuine fear.

Slowly, Clint lays his hand on the boy’s hunched shoulder, drawing Ollie’s fearful gaze back to his own face. Clint goes to one knee, shifting his belongings on his back to meet the boy's eyes from a less intimidating angle. While he has no real experience of talking to children, treating them more like short equals seems a sensible approach.

“Ollie, I promise to get him out of your town real soon,” he tells him softly.”Matter ‘o fact, I promise to get rid of a buncha ne'er do wells before I leave.” He knows that he’s just saying the words to make the boy feel better, but if everything goes to plan he’ll still be keeping his word regardless.

Ollie stares at him for a moment and nods, finding something in Clint’s face that helps him believe the words. “Imma hold you to that Mister,” his voice is stronger, even though he swallows hard.

Chuckling, Clint stands and ruffles Ollie’s hair. The boy tries to dodge, but Clint’s too quick. “I hope you do.” Ollie nods again and runs off, presumably back to whatever lookout spot he had before running up on Clint.

As he watches the boy weave between pedestrians in the thoroughfare, Clint spots a dark figure on the covered balcony of the saloon a few buildings down and across the way. Whoever it is seems to be looking right at Clint, but with the sun behind them, he can’t make out any features. A shiver crawls down his spine, warning and excitement warring with each other to overcome his confusion.

Inside the hotel is mostly clean, with only a bit of dirt gathering in the corners. A middle-aged man stands behind the counter as he sorts letters into the small boxes on the wall. He’s wearing a dusty black derby hat and frock coat, both fraying around the edges despite obviously being well cared for. Either this was his only suit, or the clerk was doing his best to really make it last.

As he steps up to the desk, they exchange greetings and empty pleasantries that Clint promptly forgets again. His exhaustion has come back, stronger than before, and he really just wants to sleep for the next few days. 

Barely paying attention, they discuss what might be available for a week or two and Clint pays half up front just so he can get a key in his hand.

Clint’s careful not to bang his bow as he makes his way up the narrow staircase. He’s asked for a room at the end of the hall, preferably on the ground floor, only managing to get half of what he requested. He sighs as he enters the room and sets his possessions down on a small dresser. It’s all decently clean, if a bit dusty, but he doesn’t really mind that. The thin mattress looks like heaven compared to what he’s had recently.

Not bothering to unpack anything, Clint opts into heading back downstairs to see if he can catch the tail end of the supper buffet offered in the dining room, stopping briefly along the way to tell the clerk he’d like a bath. There’s only a few people scattered around the room, of which only one looks up to eye him, when he enters. With a few confident strides, he’s at the buffet and loading up a plate with whatever is left and heads to a small table at the back of the room. He doesn’t actually look down at his food until he’s seated, back to the wall and facing the only door.

He practically inhales his food, barely tasting any of it. He sits for a moment, enjoying the sensation of a full belly, but doesn’t dawdle much. Clint’s intent on a bath and some sleep, and makes both of those things happen as quickly as he can manage. The bath is barely lukewarm, but it doesn’t bother him in the slightest. At least he’s cleaner than he was before. He doesn’t look forward to the walk back to his hotel, even if it’s only one building over.

Practically dead on his feet, he finally stumbles into his room and barely kicks his boots off before falling into the bed, immediately falling asleep.

~~~~~~~~

The late morning sun filtering through the uneven glass pane above his bed speckles Clint's face with mottled light, creating obnoxiously bright spots, even through his closed eyes. His brows knit together as he groans and roughly pulls the pillow from beneath him to cover his face. It’s too late though, he’s awake and hating every moment of it.

When he finally does pull the pillow off his face, it’s because he’s uncomfortably warm. He looks himself over and yes, and even though he’s barely clothed, he’s starting to sweat from the heat building in his room. He groans and drags his hand down his face. “Well, this is gonna be a miserable day,” he grumbles despite the cheerful warmth of the sun. He’s still sore, and doesn’t want to be awake, but he’s got to figure out for sure what’s going on with Bucky.

He manages a breakfast of sweet bread and half decent coffee without incident, but the moment he steps into the thoroughfare, he gets distracted by a piercing scream down the way and steps in a pile of manure. “Aww, boots, no!” he yells down at his boots, doing his best to scrape the muck off on the exposed edge of the hotel porch.

The woman screeches again, and Clint’s dashing off in search of whoever is in need of help, dodging people and horses as he makes his way to the saloon. When he barges in the front doors, there isn’t a single person that doesn’t immediately turn to look. Even the jovial piano tunes have stopped. _Barton, you idiot!_ he berates himself. He’s making too much of a scene and he’s not even been in town a full day.

Another cry rings through the air, immediately followed by a fit of giggling and everyone turns away, going back to their own business. Clint scans the room and finds a few men sitting around a large table, each with a saloon girl in their lap. Clint inhales deeply. Of course nobody was in trouble. If he’d bothered to actually pay attention, he would’ve recognized that they were just having a good time.

Allowing for enough time to appear less awkward, he makes his way to the bar and leans his uninjured hip against the lip, catching the bartender's eye when he looks his way. The tall man makes his way over, still polishing the glass in hand with a mostly clean rag. He looks pretty sharp with his dark hair slicked back and clean white shirt buttoned up to his throat.

“You ain’t gonna be makin’ a ruckus here, are ya?” he asks, mustache dancing as he speaks. “We’ve had enough ‘a that recently.”

Clint shakes his head and opens his jacket just far enough to show off the polished badge on the inside of his lapel. The bartender sighs warily. “Well, I’ll getcha your first drink on the house, but my statement remains. Don’t be causin’ no trouble,” he says firmly and turns away.

A few moments later, he slides a glass a short way down the bar and Clint catches it easily, managing not to spill any of its amber contents. He turns his back to the bar, leaning comfortably against it, and surveys the room as he takes a sip. His lips pull back in a grimace when he lowers the glass. It’s bottom shelf stuff, but he’s not going to complain about a free drink.

There’s a couple card games running, dotting the room. The group of men he’d observed earlier are still pulling and pawing at the women. Appreciative growls and flirty giggles occasionally rise over the general din of the busy saloon.

He takes another sip, taking in each person in more detail. He actually recognizes a few from the stack of wanted posters he carries in his saddlebags. When he’s done his best to memorize each face, he tosses back the rest of his drink, hissing through his teeth as he swallows. It burns as it goes down his throat.

It’s as he’s contemplating a second drink that he catches the glint of something metallic in the corner of the room. He stops breathing as his chest tightens, a cold sense of dread pooling in the pit of his belly. When he shoves himself off the bar, the metal flashes again, right into his eyes.

Cursing, Clint forces himself to loosen his posture. While at first he’d thought it had been someone pulling out a gun, the glare had been too deliberate for him not to recognize it. When he takes a few steps forward, sure enough, he can make out Bucky’s scowling face in the shadows. His prosthetic arm stretched lazily out over the back of the chair next to him in a beam of hazy sunlight. He’s talking with another man that has his back to Clint, but the way his large frame is hunching over the table is setting off warning bells in Clint’s mind. 

It doesn’t seem to be an overly friendly conversation, if the tense set of Bucky’s shoulders is anything to go on, but they don’t seem to be on the verge of coming to blows either. And yet, Clint can’t help the warmth in his chest as he finally lays eyes on Bucky in what seems like forever. He eases himself into an empty chair nearby, nodding when he’s asked if he wants to be dealt in and tossing a few bills down to show he’s interested. 

Clint’s barely aware of the cards in his hands, tossing money in when prompted but keeping a sharp eye on his partner in the corner of the room. When he lays his cards down, the entire table groans, pulling his attention to them. He’s managed a straight flush of spades, ace through five and can’t help but grin as he drags the pot to himself. He never wins at poker, even when he’s actually paying attention.

Of the four other men seated around the table, the one that threw his hand down angrily is grumbling under his breath. His eyes are bloodshot and his stained shirt isn’t fully tucked into his trousers.

Another hand is dealt, and Clint goes back to watching Bucky. He’s reclined in his chair, feet kicked onto the seat next to him. Clint knows he’s doing his best to seem lackadaisical, but the rapid tapping of his finger on the chair gives him away. At least, it does to Clint, knowing him as well as he does.

More bills are tossed in and another bet is called. Clint lays his cards down abruptly on the table when Bucky leans forward sharply, pointing at the man as he replies to him. There’s more groans at Clint’s table, but he’s too focused on what might be about to happen on the other side of the room.

“Boy, you plannin’ on collectin’ yer winnin’s?” a rough voice asks him. He barely catches the words.

Bucky's dropped his hand, but still looks pissed - well, more pissed than usual. Clint barely looks at the game as he lays his hands on the pot to collect his apparent winnings again. He’s stopped by a sweaty hand slamming down on top of his own, bringing him back to what’s right in front of him and away from Bucky. He doesn’t flinch, but it’s a close thing. When he looks up at the owner of said hand, it’s the man with the bloodshot eyes that’s glaring at him.

“How’s it you can hop into a runnin’ game and win yer first two hands with spades?” he slurs. The other men murmur their assent darkly.

Clint looks down at his hand. A full house; jacks high, all spades. His brows pinch together in confusion. “Just lucky, I guess,” he says slowly.

It's the wrong thing to say. The man stands up so fast that his chair topples over backwards with a loud clatter, drawing the attention of half the room.

“Ain’t nobody that lucky!” he howls and launches himself at Clint. He’s unsteady, but surprisingly quick, catching Clint off guard and digging his shoulder into Clint’s middle in a tackle that knocks the air from his lungs and takes him to the ground. Clint barely manages to keep his head from slamming into the ground.

Others around them start shouting and chairs screech across the floor as a few stand, but Clint can’t hear the words. He’s too busy blocking the uncoordinated barrage of blows aimed at his face and upper body. The guy gets a lucky hit in, too close to Clint’s still healing nose, and his vision whites out momentarily. A few clumsy punches land on his chest and ribs, but Clint is able to ignore those once he can see straight again.

Just as he’s about to flip the guy off of him, Mr. Bloodshot Eyes is yanked backwards and off of Clint with a yelp. When Clint peeks between his forearms, he sees Bucky fisting the back collar of the man’s shirt, basically holding him off the ground as he struggles.

Clint lowers his arms and props himself up on his elbows. “I appreciate the assistance,” he says as he meets Bucky’s eyes. They’re hard and cold as he stares down at Clint, his nose slightly scrunched in disdain. 

A flash of hurt zings through Clint’s chest at the expression and he can feel his tentative smile falter. Even back when they hadn’t gotten along in the beginning, Bucky hadn’t looked at him this way; disgusted and hateful. 

Casually, Bucky tosses the drunk off to the side with an audible whir from his prosthetic arm, before he reaches down and hauls Clint up by the front of his shirt. The crowd immediately surrounding them gasps and he only barely bites back a yelp at being manhandled.

“And what in the hell is a motherfucker like you doing out this far, _lawman? _” Bucky growls out the words when he’s brought Clint mere inches away.__

Anger floods Clint, sweat prickling on the back of his neck. “Did you just motherfuck me?” Clint asks incredulously. He knows in the back of his mind that Bucky doesn't really mean the words, that it’s all a show for his cover, but he can’t help it. 

Bucky snorts and leans into Clint's space, eyeing him up and down, flicking his chest with his left hand. It's right where his badge is pinned on the inside of his coat and the dull sound of metal colliding with metal muted by the fabric. "Yes _sir,_ Mr. Badge. I didn't stutter, did I?" The way he condescendingly calls Clint ‘sir’ makes his blood boil, and before he can stop himself, his fist is aching and Bucky is turned to the side holding his jaw. 

The entire room is silent, except for the drunk still laying on the floor breathing heavily and doing his best to focus on what’s going on. 

When Bucky slowly straightens back up, his expression is murderous. Normally that look would make Clint wary, choosing his next words very carefully in an attempt to pacify his partner. He’s too angry for that though. Clint knew that they’d have to act a certain way to each other to maintain their cover, but he never thought Bucky would go so far as to actually motherfuck him like that. 

Bucky’s jaw already has a red mark creeping out from where he’d been hit. He’s dropped his hand to his side, fingers twitching just over the knife Clint knows he has strapped to his belt. Honestly, if Clint didn’t know any better, he’d be sure that Bucky was actually ready to kill him. 

“Thought the law was above being petty like that,” Bucky says evenly. His eyes take in every tiny movement that Clint makes. It’s unnerving and Clint is certain he’d be feeling a different type of warmth running through him if it were any other time. 

“Oh, that wasn’t the law being petty,” Clint replies, his mouth caught somewhere between a smirk and a snarl. “That was all me.” He steps forward, crowding himself into Bucky. 

Suddenly, Clint’s on the ground, hipbone stinging as he collects a fresh set of bruises on top of those that haven’t already healed. Bucky’s a few feet away and more baring his teeth than grinning as he places his hands on his waist. 

“Neither you, nor the law, seem to be able to actually stand up for anythin’. 

The words make Clint see red. He doesn’t think, his body just reacts, quickly darting to his feet and tackling Bucky in the middle. The pair land in a pile of people. Women are shrieking as they flock together in the far corner of the room, and most of the men are all starting to yell over each other. Somewhere cash exchanges hands as impromptu bets are being made. 

None of the words reach Clint though. The entirety of his focus is on Bucky as he straddles his narrow waist and rains down punches. He lands a number of hits, reflexively changing where he strikes to get himself better openings. 

The pair are still locked together when someone falls into Clint, knocking him off Bucky. He’s up in an instant, immediately searching for his target, when he actually processes what’s going on around him. 

The entire room has broken out into a full-on brawl. It’s complete chaos. 

Bucky is shoving another man off himself and then he’s stalking towards Clint. He knows that he managed to actually hit Bucky, but there isn’t a mark on him as he makes his way through the din. His eyes are focused solely on Clint, and even as angry as he is, Clint can’t help the shiver that creeps down his spine. There’s no way to tell if it’s in fear, or something else entirely; something not appropriate for being in the middle of a fucking bar brawl. 

Dodging yet another man being shoved at him, Clint is ready when Bucky and him are close enough to trade blows. Their flurry of fists and boots starts to clear out the space immediately around them, like the guests of honor at a dance. Other combatants are letting their guards down in favor of watching Clint and Bucky exchange blows. 

Clint knows Bucky is stronger than him, and more experienced in hand to hand, but Clint’s faster. They’re pretty evenly matched until someone hits Clint in the back of the head with a bottle, the glass shattering and raining jagged pieces all over him. 

Bucky seizes the opportunity - and Clint’s lapels - and yanks Clint towards himself, before wrapping his prosthetic hand around his throat and squeezes. Now when Clint is fully aware of what actually happened, his air supply is already cut off and his pulse is throbbing in his temples. 

Reflexively, Clint slams his forearm down on the crook of Bucky’s prosthetic elbow, the metal sending a sharp spike of pain all the way from his wrist to his underarm. It doesn’t do much to break the hold on his throat, so Clint does it again and again, each with the same painful result. 

It’s when the irregular black spots start creeping in on the edges of his vision that Clint really starts to worry. He’d heard the stories about Bucky - the Winter Soldier - even before he’d become a Pinkerton agent. Stories that had included how merciless and unfeeling he’d been as he’d murdered anyone his handlers had instructed him to. It had taken years for him to break how he’d been conditioned to behave once he’d been brought in by the law. 

The way that he's looking at Clint now is genuinely making him fear for his life. It's as if something triggered Bucky and he’s reverted back to the way he was the first time Clint met him. 

Cold fear replaces the anger he was feeling moments before, like flames doused with a bucket of water. It’s because of this fear that he reflexively raises his knee, hitting Bucky right between his legs. 

The hand holding Clint’s throat loosens, finally letting him gasp in much needed air. Coughing, Clint brings his forearm down onto Bucky’s elbow again, this time breaking the hold and curling in on himself as he keeps dragging in heaving breaths. Clutching his neck, Clint looks over at Bucky, who is also hunched over, one hand held protectively between his legs. His expression is murderous. 

Clint barely keeps his footing when another body smashes into him. He gives an irritated scowl as the man immediately gets back to his feet and goes after whoever had shoved him. The entire saloon is in shambles. Tables are overturned, broken glass litters the floor, and still fighting bodies are everywhere. Everyone that had sense is long gone, leaving mostly drunks and those with a chip on their shoulder to settle it all with their fists. 

A deafening boom cracks through the air, halting nearly everyone in their tracks. Ears still ringing, Clint looks over to the bar, where the bartender is still holding his revolver over his head, smoke lazily trailing out of the upturned barrel. He’s not as tidy looking now. He’s lost a button on his shirt, his hair is no longer neatly slicked back and he’s sporting a fresh cut on his lip that sluggishly oozes a droplet as he sneers at Clint. 

“Y’all best leave the _marshal_ be and simmer down.” His voice is loud without yelling, so everyone can clearly hear the derisive way he announces that Clint is an agent of the law. “An’ you,” he says, pointing a stern finger at Clint. “You best be on yer way. Yer upsettin’ the natural order of things in this establishment.” 

There doesn’t seem to be much that Clint can do now. He thought he’d been keeping an eye on Bucky in case whatever shady dealing he’d been getting in went south, but either Bucky felt he didn’t need his help, or he was putting on one hell of a show. 

Straightening his posture, Clint drops his hand from his throat and pulls his shoulders back. If he’s got to leave without settling the score, then he’s got to look unaffected as well. He knows it’s going to fail spectacularly, considering the obvious discoloration around his nose and eyes, the glass still tangled in his hair, and new tears in his clothing, but he does his best. 

With a sharp nod that pulls at the forming bruise around his throat, Clint snatches his hat off the floor and leaves without another word. He’s got a million and a half things he could say, but he’s not sure that his vocal chords could manage it at this point. 

Midday sunlight greets Clint as he steps out into the thoroughfare, bright and blinding. He shakes the glass loose from his hair and replaces his hat pulls before he makes his way towards the stables near the hotel. He’s still too amped up from the brawl to just head back to his room and nurse his injuries, and he's always found the methodical care of his horse soothing when he’s this unsettled. Usually he’d just grab his bow and find some secluded spot to perforate, but he’s got to stick close to town and keep an eye on things until he can determine Bucky’s actual state of mind. Until then, he’ll have to delay their plan. 

There’s only a single young man in the stable when he arrives, giving Clint a confused look, but otherwise stays quiet. Clint prefers it this way, so he wastes no time in finding a basket of grooming tools, stripping off his duster, and getting to work. He brushes Lucky’s coat until she’s gleaming - despite her best efforts of rubbing herself against Clint. Every stroke of the brush down her body helps drain the remaining adrenaline from his system. The repetitive task helps him to clear his mind and analyze what had actually happened in the saloon. 

Bucky had obviously signaled him with the glare of sunlight off his arm, so was the rest of what happened all for show? It was damn convincing if it was. Everything from what Bucky did, to his facial expressions has Clint silently denying that Bucky could do that to him - that he’s reverted back to his Winter Soldier ways. 

When he starts treating the tack, his mare lazily wanders over and licks at his hands as he works. Normally he’d find it irritating, but right now it’s just endearing; a much needed distraction from his own thoughts. He lets her continue on until she starts trying to climb into his lap, and would have succeeded had Clint not slipped out from beneath her. 

It’s as his stomach grumbles that he realizes that it’s getting dark out. He’s spent all afternoon with his horse. His fingers are filthy and they ache, but his mind is clearer than when he’d come into the stable. 

Clint’s barely able to catch dinner at the hotel once he’s washed up and made his way back. There’s hardly anyone left in the dining hall, which suits him just fine. 

Once sated, Clint starts wandering the small town, casually making his way in and out of shops and weaving his way between the buildings. Everything’s quiet, much to Clint’s chagrin. 

On his way back to the hotel, Clint gets the distinct feeling that someone is watching him - a feeling of ghostly fingers trailing the length of his spine. He can’t help the full-body shiver that shakes him. Normally, he’d try to surreptitiously look around, but whoever’s watching already knows that he’s aware of them, so Clint spins full circle, walking backwards for a few moments as he gets a good look around. 

It only takes a few seconds to spot the shadowy figure on the balcony of the saloon again. He can’t be sure, but it seems to be the same person as the day before. They seem content to just stand and watch. Clint glares and sardonically waves at them. 

Just like the day before, the figure just steps back until the lip of the balcony blocks Clint’s view. Even without their eyes on him, Clint’s skin still crawls. He’s not normally this unnerved by someone skulking around and watching him like this, he’s used to being the center of attention with all eyes on him, but this feels different somehow. 

Clint does his best to shake off the feeling of unease, but even as he’s climbing into bed he still can’t seem to fully relax his tense muscles. It takes him ages to finally fall asleep, and when he does his dreams are full of dark figures and bright flashes of sunlight. 

~~~~~~~~~~ 

~~~~~~~~~~ 

It’s difficult for Clint to actually get out of bed the next morning, even with the same hazy beam of sunlight on his face gently urging him to do so. His throat hurts and it feels as though his entire body is just a mass of bruises. This time he takes his bow with him as he opts to skip breakfast and just has a cup of coffee instead, since it’s all his mutinous stomach will allow. 

He’s sitting at the same table in the back corner, enjoying the warmth when Ollie bursts into the dining hall, his clothes askew and eyes wild. “Mister, you better come quick! That scary man with the arm is fixin’ to kill a newcomer!” his voice is shrill as he yells. 

Clint’s got his bow in hand and is out of his seat, pushing past the kid in seconds flat, ignoring his body protests him to take it easy. Ollie scrambles to catch up, but once they’re both through in the thoroughfare, he takes the lead and runs to the outskirts of town where Clint first arrived only days earlier. 

As he follows the kid, Clint’s mind is running through all sorts of scenarios - some better than others. Clint slows when Ollie suddenly darts down a narrow alley, climbing over crates and barrels to make his way through without another word. He warily continues in the direction the kid had been leading him, and as he rounds the corner, finds a small group of men standing in a loose semi circle with Bucky in the middle of them all. 

His stomach knots and his palms grow slick with sweat as he grips his bow a little tighter. Bucky is scowling at him and Clint has to fight not to bring his free hand up to rub at his throat. “Mornin’ gents. Out for a leisurely stroll to work up a strong lunch appetite?” Clint sighs internally when his voice comes out without sounding hoarse. 

A few of the men chuckle and glance at each other. Clint recognizes every single one of them. This is the posse they’ve been chasing across the entire damn country, ‘The Boys of Dread’. Either Bucky really worked hard at making a criminal name for himself here, or he’d reverted back to his former ways, prior to becoming an agent. 

The man behind Bucky steps forward. He’s almost as tall as Clint and broader than Bucky with no neck to speak of and a scar on his face that makes his lip curl in a perpetual snarl. One glance and even a toddler could tell that he didn’t mean anything good. Clint instantly recognizes him as Wesley ‘Ryder’ Wiggins: notorious robber, murderer, and generally just a bad guy. He lays a meaty hand on Bucky’s shoulders and only Clint can see the slight twitch in his partner’s face. If he is still his partner… 

“Ya see Marshal, my boys and I _were_ out for a stroll, when this ruffian managed to garner our collective attentions,” he says, sounding surprisingly soft spoken, almost as though he has to strain to get his voice to carry over to Clint. “He says he wants to get in good with me an’ my boys, but you know how it is. We can’t just let anyone join us.” 

Clint shifts his weight and tightens his hold on his bow until he can feel his knuckles creaking. He’d known this was coming, but he hadn’t expected it to be so soon after arriving, or just after a bar fight. He knows what’s about to happen and his scalp starts to tingle as his body starts pumping adrenaline into his veins. 

“Seems like the flagpole in front of town hall is a fair thing t’climb if you’re lookin’ for a challenge.” Clint berates himself as soon as the words are out of his mouth. 

Ryder chuckles and it sounds like a landslide: rough and grating. "Never knew the law actually had a sense of humor." The other guys around him snicker, but Bucky remains unfazed even as another man shouts out that he's got a flagpole Clint can climb and sets them all off, roaring with laughter. 

When they settle, Ryder gently squeezes Bucky's shoulder. It looks almost familial. "Well son, I think it's high time to get this show on the road." 

Bucky nods curtly and casually steps forward, Ryder’s hand slipping from his shoulder. As soon as that hand hits his side, Bucky's rushing at Clint. They both know where his advantage lies, so it's expected when Bucky does his best to immediately negate Clint's range. 

Clint's not standing idly either. Just as quick, he's pulling an arrow from his quiver and nocking it. When he shoots, Bucky deflects it with his prosthetic, the arrow glancing off and striking a barrel right next to a short, whip-thin man that Clint recognizes and immediately disregards, as Walter 'The Bully' Reeves. He jumps and swears, but Clint has already moved on. 

Another draw of the bow, another deflected arrow - this time digging so deep into the ground at Ryder’s feet. It’s second nature for Clint to try and keep track of where his arrows end up, but it’s not doing him any favors right now. Bucky is already too close to shoot. Clint swings his bow at Bucky, but that fucking prosthetic hand stops it short from landing anywhere useful, and now Clint’s fingers are feeling tingly from the shock of the wood hitting metal. 

With a huff of air, Bucky kicks his leg out to sweep Clint’s out from under him. He raises his foot and Bucky only kicks up dust instead. Clint can’t help but pucker his lips and make kisses at Bucky to rile him up. It works. A little too well, if the snarl on Bucky’s face is anything to go off of. 

They parry and dodge as they both do their best to land a decent hit. At least, Bucky seems to be doing his best. Clint can’t help but hold back. He’s supposed to be overpowered, and it’s surprisingly difficult to actually hit his partner - both mentally and physically. 

It’s almost as though they’re dancing with the way they’re moving around and twisting their bodies. A bead of sweat rolls into Clint’s eye, making it sting, but he has to ignore it. He has to keep moving and put on a good show. 

The sun is at Clint’s back when it happens. Bucky awkwardly angles his arm and Clint’s blinded by the glare. He raises his free hand to try and block the light and doesn’t even see the hit coming. The air rushes from his lungs and pain blooms in his chest. Clint chokes on a reflexive gasp and stumbles to the side. He has to stay upright - has to focus on his attacker. He’s had enough training to combat the initial urge to curl up on himself until his breathing returns to normal. 

Clint stumbles again, this time over something. A something that ends up being someone’s foot Clint realizes, but it’s all Bucky needs to gain the upper hand. He’s on Clint before he can recover, taking them both to the ground and knocking what little air Clint had managed to get back out forcefully. 

Fists are raining down on Clint faster than he can process, both flesh and bone and prosthetic alike. He hears a sickening grinding crunch as Bucky hits him in his still healing nose, stealing his breath and making every thought leave his brain. 

When he can finally take in what’s around him, Clint’s on his front, hands empty as they’re held behind his back. “Fuckin’ hell. Ya had to go for the face, didn’t ya?” he says, getting a mouthful of dust when Bucky pulls his hands higher up his back. 

“You best be keepin’ that trap of yours shut,” Bucky growls into his ear. 

Clint huffs. “Not my strong suit. It’s kinda my thing to banter with the bad guys.” When he fights against Bucky’s hold, his hands are just forced higher up his back. He grimaces and hopes that Bucky doesn’t push them any higher than that, otherwise he might have even less fun than he’s having now. 

Ryder’s dusty boots stop inches from Clint’s nose. When he squats down, Clint has to look at him from the corner of his eye. The smell of stale cigar smoke descends over Clint, making his nose wrinkle in disgust. “Y’know son, I wasn’t sure ya could actually do it,” he’s talking to Bucky as though Clint isn’t actually there and glaring up at him. “We’ve all heard tale of _The Amazing Hawkeye_ an’ how he never misses his mark. How even in the most fucked of sit’ations, he still manages t’come out on top: target in hand.” Ryder pats Clint’s cheek and a few of the other men chuckle as Clint tries to pull his face away, only to be stopped by Bucky’s tight hold. “An’ here we were, all concerned ‘bout him on our trail.” 

Bucky stays silent throughout the whole thing, which is the most unnerving part for Clint. He’s been in bad situations before, and dealt with all the monologuing in stride. It’s the lack of any kind of communication from Bucky that’s killing him though. 

“Y’all probably should be more scared of my—” Clint’s comment is cut short with a yelp as Bucky pulls him up and back off the ground. “Hey, easy on dem goods Soldier,” He’s pulled to his feet with Bucky’s hands still firmly in place over his own. “I don’t think I’d look as good with one of those nifty metal arms.” 

One of the other men hands Bucky a length of rope and he shifts both of Clint’s wrists into his prosthetic hand. Honestly, Clint had been hoping for some sort of comment - _something_ to let him know that Bucky was still with him. That anxious feeling is rising up in his throat, making it feel fluttery with a possibility of being sick, but he ignores it, even as Bucky quickly winds the rope around his wrists. 

As soon as his hands are secured, Bucky shoves him forward. It’s not enough to send him to the ground, but it’s a near thing. Clint turns back when he’s regained his balance to start complaining when he sees two more men, horses in tow - among them his own painted mare, approaching the group. 

Clint takes an angry step forward, but Bucky steps in his path, blocking him completely. He looks over Bucky’s shoulder and starts shouting at the approaching men. “I don’t know how ya knew she was mine, but you better’ve not hurt her!” 

With that same grating chuckle, Ryder steps into his line of sight. “Boy, you best believe we been watchin’ you since you was a speck on the horizon.” 

Clint opens his mouth to hopefully say something witty when Bucky growls, actually growls at him. Never in the rest of his life would Clint ever admit to the things that does to him though. No, there was not an electric current traveling up his spine, or a heat warming the pit of his stomach like a well-stoked fire. Instead, he snaps his mouth shut fast enough to feel his teeth clack together. 

“Well, time t’go boy,” Ryder says ominously. 

Bucky pulls him to his mare, and he doesn’t have it in him to resist the urging. “Y’know, usually yer date has to actually accept yer courtin’ before ya go out.” 

This time Ryder doesn’t chuckle. Instead, his eyes cloud over with something dark and thunderous. “Seems we got ourselves a showman, fellas. Why don’t y’all show him how we treat folk like him that think themselves full o’ humor.” 

There’s chuckles all around and then a sharp pain in the back of Clint’s head. The last thing he sees is Bucky’s spurs dancing in the sunlight on the back of his black boots. 

~~~~~~~~~~~ 

Coming back is slow going and frankly, just painful. Clint’s head is throbbing in time with his heartbeat. He groans and shifts to ease the pain in his chest and shoulders and realizes he’s been thrown over his own saddle and his mare is happily making her way with the rest of the team of horses. 

His hands are still bound behind him, and another rope has been looped around the back of his neck and his knees, probably to keep him from falling off his horse. Thankfully they haven’t gagged or blindfolded him, even if the sun is sending a fresh spike of pain every time he blinks. 

He knows he’s been out for a while. The sun is low and the dusty ground is covered in long shadows. The thing is, he has no idea where the hell they could be. 

Someone slaps his shoulder, and he curses himself when he flinches. “Looks like Sunshine is finally awake, Boss!” Someone else nearby calls out with a nasal voice. 

Looking around as best he can, Clint doesn’t immediately see Bucky, or Ryder for that matter. He does see five of Ryder’s men on their respective horses though. There’s nothing in his surroundings to let him know where they are or where they’re headed though: just an endless expanse of dust and red mesas dotting the landscape. The only thing Clint can guess at safely, is that the group is headed to the one ahead of them. 

“I assume y’all’re callin’ me Sunshine cause of my sunny disposition,” Clint says, doing his best to sound unbothered or even bored with the situation. He’s proud of himself when his voice comes out clear and strong. The second he remembers what’s going on, his stomach starts twisting itself in a complex series of knots. 

“Nah, boy. We callin’ you Sunshine cause a’how flamboyant y’are.” It’s the same person that had called out before, getting a few low chuckles from some of the other men. 

Clint shifts uncomfortably at the implications, trying to see if he can find Bucky or Ryder, and comes precariously close to falling off his saddle in doing so. A chill hand grabs hold of his ankle with a mechanical whir and a hiss of steam, before he actually slips off though. At least now he knows where his supposed partner is. 

Bucky’s silence is still throwing Clint completely off balance. The hand leaves his leg and they continue on. Clint manages to keep up a string of complaints and sass nearly the entire time, and luckily only pisses one of them off enough to actually hit him. They kick him in the jaw as they ride by, the pointed toe of his boot cutting a line from his jaw to his lip and making his vision swim. The other men laugh and congratulate Clint’s attacker on his antics. 

It's enough for Clint to keep his comments to a minimum for the last hour or two before they stop. They’ve been following the outer edge of the mesa Clint already suspected was their destination earlier on. 

Eventually, the gang comes upon an angled opening in the rockface, something easily missed unless you were traveling on the outside of the mesa as they have been. It's narrow enough that Clint is a bit concerned about hitting his head on anything sticking out of the rockwall as they pass through. Fortunately, it's a shorter distance than anticipated and he makes it through unscathed. 

He barely has time to relish the small victory when the horses stop and the men start dismounting. Bucky ~~Clint assumes~~ , quickly cuts the ropes securing him to the horse and gives his leg one harsh tug, sending him crashing to the ground in a heap. Clint clenches his eyes shut and hisses through his teeth as his battered body catches the brunt of the fall. He presses his forehead into the sun-warmed sand until the worst of the pain passes. 

Between his still-healing injuries and everything Clint managed to add onto that list in the past two days, he's just an all-out mess. Raising his head, he surveys the hidey-hole. Barrels and crates are strewn about, possibly making slightly more private sleeping areas. 

Awkwardly, he pulls himself up so he’s propped up against a nearby crate. It didn’t really improve his line of sight, but it made him feel a little less exposed. Bucky stays close by, removing his and Clint’s saddle bags and dropping them into a nearby alcove. 

Once he’s gotten things to a seemingly acceptable place, Bucky comes back to Clint and starts hauling him up by his bicep. Clint hisses. With as long as his arms have been tied behind his back, his shoulders are screaming at him, and being yanked off the ground isn’t helping.

“Y’know, I’ve heard rumors about ya,” Clint says as he finally gets his balance, “The Winter Soldier, they call ya.” A couple of the other men slow in their own tasks at the name. Bucky just gives him a flat look and tugs him over to the alcove he’d put their possessions. “Yessir. You’re bona fide.”

Bucky shoves him hard enough to make him stumble. “You need to keep yer trap shut,” he mutters darkly before going back to digging through his bags.

“Naw, I mean, I wouldn’t mind bringing you in myself, but yer a two-man job. At least.” As if to combat that nasty feeling welling the pit of his stomach, Clint keeps talking, hoping to get some sort of normal Bucky-like response out of his partner. He hadn’t even been this cold towards Clint when he’d gotten his prosthetic arm ripped off in New Mexico. 

A glint of metal is all the warning Clint gets before Bucky is on top of him, pressing him painfully on his trapped limbs. “At some point, that mouth’s gonna getchu into serious trouble.” The words are cold, far colder than the metal hand laying over his throat. 

He swallows compulsively, throat suddenly feeling dry. Clint opens his mouth to respond, but Bucky’s hand tightens just enough to cut off his air completely. Getting the message, Clint snaps his mouth closed with an audible click of his teeth. He swallows again and stares into his partner’s eyes, willing Bucky to show him something - anything - that would let him know that he’s still in there.

Bucky stares back for another moment, giving nothing away, and moves back with a curt nod when Clint doesn’t say anything else. The damage, be as it may, is done though. As Bucky goes back to rummaging through his bags, Clint can occasionally hear the soft murmurs of a few others nearby.

“That Marshal called him The Winter Soldier.”

“I know! I heard it too Dwayne. I got m’own ears.”

“He’s got himself a metal arm, like th’ tales.”

“I always thought the Winter Soldier was just a campfire story meant to scare the yella bellied.”

“Nah, he was real. Just hangin’ out in the bone orchard, I heard.”

“You heard wrong Frankie. Man’s alive an’ here with us.”

What Clint can hear sounds equal parts awe-struck, fearful, and eager: rightfully so. They’re right to be terrified by what Bucky was - what the Winter Soldier is. For them, it’s like meeting some kind of mass-murdering celebrity, and with him, they were sure to gain plenty of new recruits to their villainous cause.

“A’right men!” Ryder’s low voice has no trouble immediately drawing the attention of every man in the hideout. “Seems we got plenty to celebrate, so let’s get to it!” The shouts from the men echo off the rock walls, making it seem like there are a great deal more to their gang than there actually is.

It takes only a few hours until many of the men are drunk, a few of them even pass out. Most have grouped together around two fires and seem to be having a grand time telling tales of triumphs in order to top each other. Bucky has never left Clint’s side, although he does show mercy and re-tie Clint’s hands in front of him.

At one point, one of the few that are now passed out approached Bucky, sitting next to him like they were old friends eager to catch up. The guy even tried to put a hand on Bucky’s shoulder. Maybe it was reflexive, or maybe he just didn’t want to be touched, or maybe he wanted to send a clear message, but Bucky broke two of this guy's fingers, the snapping of bone loud enough to be heard over the cacophony of the gang’s celebrations.

Nobody tried to approach Bucky after that.

Clint had tried talking to Bucky as well, but given up when he almost let something slip. So now he’s sitting, essentially alone for all the company Bucky, or the Winter Soldier is providing, and growing more and more envious of the small campfires dotting the ground. Tucking his hands between his legs, Clint does his best to stifle a shiver. The sun has long gone down and the dusty landscape doesn’t hold on to the heat for long.

There isn’t much Clint can do until Bucky gives him some sort of signal. The goal of this plan is to assess the gang and take in Ryder if it seems like they’ll fall apart without him. Tracking them down individually might take longer, but it would be a lot easier - and safer. From what Clint has seen, it appears as if Ryder has no real second-in-command, so once Clint and Bucky manage to arrest Ryder (and collect the hefty bounty), it’ll be a steady stream of arrests for the rest of the year for them.

Ryder’s approach snaps him from his thoughts. Clint’s hand flexes with the desire to feel the comfort of his fingers closing around his bow, however the weapon lies on a nearby crate, separated from him by Bucky sharpening his a large hunting knife. 

“I seen whatcha did t’poor Henry’s hand earlier,” Ryder says to Bucky, taking a sip from his glass and wiggling his fingers. Bucky doesn’t say anything in his defense, just gives him a flat look without lifting his head. 

“Not sayin’ he didn’t deserve a few broken bones or nothin’. Fool’s always gotta make nice with dem better an’ him.” As Ryder sits next to Bucky, Clint can see the slight tick in Bucky’s mouth as he continues sharpening his blade. Even if he has reverted back to the Winter Soldier, it looks like he still doesn’t like Ryder. 

“So you and Henry’re makin’ nice most of the time, huh?” Clint can't help himself, he just has to prod the proverbial bear. 

Ryder’s mouth twists angrily, not quite a sneer, but a close thing. “Sunset tomorrow, you oughtta end him,” he says, using his chin to point at Clint.

Raising his bound hands, Clint fires off a retort. “Y’know, I would. Ya just gotta…” He trails off, presenting the knot keeping his wrists together. Clint knows he’s talking to Bucky, whose expression doesn’t falter, he just keeps on sharpening his knife. Clint doesn’t seem to have a filter at the moment though.

He doesn’t react when Ryder steps up to him, glowering down. There seems to be a lot of that going around today, angry people towering over Clint, he’s almost getting used to it. “Y’know, it’s almost a shame to kill someone that’s as quick-witted as you,” Ryder says, tapping Clint’s thigh with his boot. “Too bad you ain’t on the stage er somethin’.”

“Funny story that—” Clint’s quip is cut short, breaking off with a cry of pain when Ryder kicks him instead, catching him squarely in the ribs. He curls his body up, turning his back on Ryder and Bucky.

“Ain’t nobody wantin’ to hear yer tall tales here, boy,'' Ryder growls out. He turns to Bucky and gestures at Clint when he says, “I dunno how you’ve put up with him s’far. I woulda gagged him hours ago.”

The wet grinding sound of metal on slick stone stops and Clint turns back to look at the pair locked in some sort of staring contest. Something is being communicated here that he can’t decipher and it’s making Clint’s hackles rise. A few long, tense moments pass, but finally Ryder gets some kind of assent from Bucky. He takes another slow sip of his drink, gives Bucky a single nod, and walks away.

The moment he’s out of earshot, Clint turns to Bucky. “What the hell was that?” he asks.

He can see Bucky look at him without turning his head, but he doesn’t say anything, just returns to sharpening his knife with slow, methodical movements.

Heat creeps up Clint’s face. “Hey! I’m talkin’ t’you!” he shouts, getting looks from a pair of outlaws nearby. “I know you ain’t really some kinda mechanical man, despite what the rumors say.”

“You don’t know anything ‘bout me.” Bucky says the words so softly that Clint can barely hear them over the rushing sound in his ears. 

Clint huffs out a breath. “Yeah, that’s for fucking sure.” 

For the first time, Bucky’s head snaps up, a hurt expression crossing his face that’s gone so quick that Clint isn’t even really sure it was there in the first place. Hope sparks briefly in Clint’s chest, and he wonders if it’s all just been a really convincing act, but the hope is dashed just as quickly.

Something tightens in Clint’s chest. He’s mad, his body needs about a month of sleep, and the guy he still hoped he could trust isn’t telling him anything. Whatever is going to happen, Clint has to do it by himself.

“I guess if I’m dyin’ tomorrow, Imma die well rested; which’ll be a nice change a’pace,” Clint says sourly, laying back. Since his hands are still tied, he does his best to arrange them awkwardly in his lap. He’s not actually going to sleep, but he’s got a point to make.

He’s only just closed his eyes when something clamps down on the ankle of his boot. He starts, trying to reflexively pull his leg away, but it just digs in further. Bucky growls and winds a few loops of rope over his ankle, cinching it snugly just above his boot.

It’s far from comfortable, but so is the entire situation. Clint watches as Bucky goes back to his seat and ties the other end to his own ankle just as roughly as he had on Clint’s. Without another look at him, Bucky leans back against the crate, arms folded over his chest and closes his eyes. Of course Bucky - no, the Winter Soldier, Clint has to stop thinking of him as Bucky - wouldn’t make it easy on him to try and escape. 

Out of spite, Clint shifts his leg to pull on the rope connecting them. He knows it’s petty and virtually meaningless, but it makes him feel better to see the Winter Soldier immediately crack an eye and frown at him. Clint just gives him a flat look and waits until he closes his eyes again. Hopefully he can find a way to slip out of his bonds and get the jump on Ryder while everyone is sleeping off the booze. He just has to wait for the right moment.

Unfortunately, that moment never comes. No matter the time of night, or into the morning, Bucky’s eyes pop open any time that Clint moves more than a shuffle. Neither of them actually get any sleep, which is fine with Clint, he knows he isn’t going to be able to sleep with the Sword of Damocles hanging over his head, and if he couldn’t sleep, there was no reason to let the Soldier sleep either.

It’s difficult to tell time accurately with the high cliff walls surrounding them, but Clint guesses it’s mid-morning by the time the bulk of the gang begins to rise. A few even take the hair of the dog to get over their hangovers as they barely converse while they tack up their horses. 

Bucky walks across Clint’s field of vision before he can even process that they’re no longer stuck together, taking care of their own horses and keeping a wary - if tired - eye on Clint while he stretches.

“I’d offer t’give ya a hand, but Imma a little tied up at the moment,” Clint says through a yawn. Bucky doesn’t respond, just continues meticulously buckling straps and shifting gear around.

This time when they all saddle up, Clint’s allowed to sit properly in his saddle, but not before his hands are retied behind him again. Bucky takes the reins for Clint’s mare and leads them out of the alcove with the rest of the posse. Nobody’s so much as mentioned where they’re going exactly, but if they’re going to make real use of killing off a government official, it’s going to be somewhere public, which likely means they’re headed back to town.

They travel for hours, and Clint uses the time to try and get through to Bucky. It’s difficult because he has to be careful not to slip up, but nothing seems to work. After a number of gloomy stares and more than one threat of bodily harm, he eventually gives up. 

As they start traveling uphill, a few of Ryder’s grunts sidle up next to Clint and start with unimaginative jeers; nothing Clint hasn’t heard a hundred times before, so he mostly tunes them out. All but one seem to lose interest when he doesn’t give them the reaction they want.

“An’ we all know you only got rocks rattlin’ round in that head a’yers, you glorified bootlicker,” the bedraggled man slurs, unsteady on his horse, swaying dangerously as his steed walks along. As soon as the man steers his horse a bit closer, it’s an easy thing for Clint to bring his foot up and shove him off his horse.

He lands with a heavy thud and a sickening crunch. Between the mixture of angry shouting and laughter, it takes everyone a moment to realize that something is truly wrong, it’s not until a pool of blood spreads from beneath him that there's a call for the group to stop.

A smallish man in suspenders dismounts and bends to roll him over revealing a rock, the sharp edge glistening in the early afternoon sunlight. His face is covered in blood and dust and his eyes stare up at the sky, no longer seeing anything. “Hoss, he killed Charlie!” Suspenders belatedly calls out.

“Guess he should’a watched himself better,” Clint says as though he were commenting on the weather. He hadn’t meant to kill the guy, but he’s’ not going to show any guilt for someone cheering for his death. Thick fingers wind through his hair and yank back and he hisses. He looks out of the corner of his eye to see Ryder clenching his jaw. 

Clint hadn’t been thinking about possible consequences when he’d kicked the man, but even if he had, it probably wouldn’t have stopped him. Ryder has already announced his intent to kill, so he might as well get his shots in while he can. If he’s really lucky, someone will slip up enough that he can get away. 

“Charlie weren’t worth his salt to our current operation,” Ryder growls out as he leans in, breath heavy and humid against the soft skin of Clint’s neck, sending a wave of gooseflesh prickling down his spine, “but that don’t mean I don’t take it as an insult to my own persons.”

Clint feels his adam’s apple bob as he swallows, chin tilted up as it is. There’s a rough shake of his head before his hair is released. Clint turns to glare at Ryder, and is stopped short when Ryder’s meaty hand collides with the side of his head so hard, he’s thrown from his saddle. He’s barely able to twist himself in time to save himself from the same fate as the bloody man laying only a few feet away from him. Without his hands to break his fall, he lands hard enough that there’s an audible pop in his shoulder. 

There’s another round of chuckling when Clint rolls with a wheeze. His shoulder is on fire that burns counterpoint to the cold weight resting on his chest. He cries out when someone’s gruff hands yank him up to sitting by his lapels. It’s not any better when Bucky appears to shove him back horse on his and pulls on the reins to get them moving again.

It feels like it takes forever before the horses are brought to a stop and the dulled sound of boots crunching in the rocky dust fills the air. Clint’s certain his shoulder is dislocated, when he tries moving his fingers, they’re uncooperative at best.

Before too much longer, the group is coming up on a small overlook that is easily seen from the town they’d all recently been in. Clint can even hear a few shouts from the civilians below when the group is spotted. A single tree stands in the center.

Light dapples his face, and when he looks up, he sees the gnarled branches of an ancient oak bereft of leaves and something heavy and full of dread forms deep in the pit of his stomach. There’s already a thick rope dangling over a thick branch, knotted and looped. Clint's throat is going dry at the thought of it digging into his neck.

Bucky leads Lucky under the noose and Clint just has to try getting through to his partner again. “Look, Bucky I—”

“Stop talking,” Bucky says sharply and he’s reaching over Clint’s head and pulling the noose over his head. 

Clint can’t help but lash out, kicking out at Bucky as he ducks his head away from the rope, but there’s not much he can do and Bucky seems prepared for it. He grabs Clint’s ankle before he can do any damage and holds it tight enough to bruise. The mechanical whir of his prosthetic can just be heard over the wind whipping around them, speckling Clint’s sweat-slicked skin in dust.

“Bucky, just _listen._ Please,” Clint pleads. Deep down, he knows they are still friends, it can’t all be gone. Something flits across Bucky’s faceat his words. Before, Clint trusted him, more than almost anyone else in his life he realizes, and that hurts more than any of the wounds he’s gotten. It cuts something deep down within him.

“Stop. _Talking,_ ” Bucky orders again, punctuating the point by grabbing a hold of Clint’s now obviously swollen shoulder.

Pain lances down his body, white hot and blinding. He loses track of time for a few moments, and when he comes back, he’s struggling to breath. He curled in on himself reflexively, his body doing its best to protect itself, and ended up pulling on the noose now secured around his neck.

As he gets himself upright, Clint takes what might be one of his last, deep breaths. He has to get himself under control. He must get through to Bucky. When he looks over though, Bucky’s already moving away and is staring at him dispassionately. 

“Any last words, Marshal?” Ryder asks smugly. 

Clint doesn’t take his off Bucky. “Yes—” He pauses to clear his throat. “Yes. Nothin’ in life ever seems to go accordin’ t’plan, it ain’t somethin’ t’lose yer head over though.” It's the same thing he said to Bucky after the cave-in in New Mexico. Back when they'd thought they were going to die. Bucky’s eyebrows pinch together at the same time his mouth forms a tiny frown. He’s still staring at Clint, but under the confused expression, there’s a glimmer of… something… in his eyes that hadn’t been there for the past few days. Something that makes Clint’s stomach flip with a feeling he’s refused to identify.

The men around him snigger. “Well boys, seems the Marshal’s funny right til th’end,” Ryder says and nods, signaling someone behind Clint to slap his mare’s rump. There’s a sudden yank when she takes off running, the rope immediately tightening around Clint’s neck as he starts swinging.

Clint struggles against the ropes around his wrists again. He knows he can’t slip the knots, he’s been trying all afternoon, but he’s no longer thinking. Now his mind is in full fight-or-flight, and completely out of control.

Suspenders slaps Bucky’s back jovially as they watch Clint kick and struggle. And there’s a moment where it seems that only Clint can see the change in Bucky’s demeanor: Some small way he twists his mouth, or the way the corners of his eyes crinkle. Clint can’t really identify it as he fights for air. 

There are dark spots creeping in on the edges of his vision. It’s getting harder and harder to focus on what he’s supposed to be doing. Clint can’t even hear the laughter he knows is around him, over the blood pounding in his ears.

He knows he’s not going to last much longer, so when Bucky finally meets his eyes again, he tries to convey everything he should’ve said before; how much Bucky means to him. He’s not sure how well it works, because his mind starts showing him things that couldn’t possibly be. 

A flash of fiery red hair and a feral grin with scarlet lips.

A man with dark hair angrily chasing two young boys.

Gears shifting before fizzling out in a dark cloud of smoke.

Bucky elbowing Suspenders in the face with a fountain of blood as the smaller man falls.

The last coherent thing Clint thinks before it all goes dark, is how he wishes he could go back to figure out what could have been with Bucky.

~~~~~~~~

There’s a floaty feeling that accompanies death, it seems. Some disconnect between awareness and sensation that’s a lot like being in the twilight of wakefulness; caught somewhere between the real world and a dream state.

Clint feels like there’s a warm hand pressed against his face, but Death’s fingers are supposed to be cold. Those same warm fingers slide to cup his jaw and before he can process what the change might mean, there are soft lips pressed against his own, searing him like a brand.

He wants to kiss those lips back, which is a weird thought to have. Maybe even weirder than Death kissing you. Apparently reasonable thought is harder to come by in death than it is in life, which is a real shame.

A rush of warm air past his lips breaks him out of his thoughts, burning his throat and forcing itself into his lungs. He can feel his chest expand, and the burning grows, as though it’s going to consume him. He can feel his brows furrow, he's already been hanged, there's no need for Death to kill him again.

“C’mon Clint…” a voice begs from somewhere above him. It sounds like whoever is talking is underwater, but that can’t be right either. “You can’t leave me. I need you,” the voice sounds heavy, like whoever is speaking has been crying, and that can't be right.

There’s an overwhelming urge to dry those tears - to hold and comfort whoever is speaking at the back of Clint’s mind. It keeps building until it starts to push away the pleasant floaty feeling, and then pain creeps in.There's a pounding in his temples, pulsing in time with his heart struggling to beat, then with a burning in his chest and throat when he tries to turn his head.

“Clint?” the voice asks so softly, it’s almost completely drowned out by the high-pitched ringing in Clint’s ears. When he groans, the voice lets out something too frantic to really be called a laugh and something wraps around him tightly.

Finally, Clint feels close enough to waking that he can peel his eyes open to see someone curled over his supine body. The sun is hanging just over the horizon, casting an ethereal halo of light around the figure.

“Didja jus’ kiss me?” he croaks out, his words running together.

The figure pulls back enough to turn into Bucky’s concerned face, splattered with blood. “Oh God, Clint. I’m so sorry,” he gasps, tears already dripping down his nose and dropping heavily onto Clint’s face. “I thought fer sure you were a goner.”

When Clint tries to respond, he goes into a coughing fit. Bucky obviously wants to do something to help him, but pulls back even more, as though he’s afraid of injuring him further. It takes a few minutes for Clint’s lungs to settle, leaving him suddenly exhausted.

Clint glances around and sees the ground littered with bodies. He can’t tell if anyone is still breathing, but it doesn’t seem to matter to him anymore. They’d sent him knocking on Death’s door. All that matters now is that he’s alive and Bucky’s back with him again.

Without a second thought, or a first thought really, Clint uses all the strength he can muster and pulls Bucky down to him and seals their lips together. Bucky lets out a small noise of surprise, and then melts into the brief kiss.

When they part, Bucky is just as out of breath as Clint, as though he were the one that had just escaped the noose. Clint watches Bucky and waits for the inevitable rejection he’s feared for so long.

Something must show on his face, because Bucky’s expression softens and he gingerly strokes Clint’s cheek with the back of his fingers. “Yeehaw partner.”

__

**Author's Note:**

> So I kinda fuddled up the 'fake kidnapping' trope, but hopefully you still enjoyed it!
> 
> Yo! I'm on [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/harishe-art) Come take a look!
> 
> I'm also on discord! Harishe#6556  
> So we had two parallel events for tropes and AUs. One was held in a [thirsty Marvel Discord server](https://discord.gg/6ywkFQBVGs) the other was in a [WinterWidowHawk](https://discord.gg/QPyhq73Shw) server that's taking off. Come check us out!


End file.
